A Mark of Greatness
by GirlWithPrettierLies
Summary: P R O L O G U E It was a dreary day in late November. The rain fell in thick sheets outside the huge glass windows. The sky was plastered with gray clouds, the airport was bustling with a variety of passengers, some shoving through the lines in a hurry, some casually waiting for family. Chatter sounded in waves like the ebbing tide. The long lines were winding through...


**E**

It was a dreary day in late November. The rain fell in thick sheets outside the huge glass windows. The sky was plastered with gray clouds, the airport was bustling with a variety of passengers, some shoving through the lines in a hurry, some casually waiting for family. Chatter sounded in waves like the ebbing tide. The long lines were winding through the huge lobby to the check-in gates.

A man in his late twenties who had moist dark hair and carried a small bag entered through the doors at the far end of the arena after dropping a quick kiss on the cheek of a woman his age with tan skin and electric green eyes.

"Good luck," she whispered amiably.

"I'll miss you," the man replied.

"I'll join you someday," she promised. "Someday soon."

And with that, they parted. She walked quietly away from the building, careful not to splash any water. The man hurried to the line with a sign that read 'foreign passengers'.

He knew that, a few hours later, he would land in an airport in a place called San Diego. He would be living the dreams of so many of his friends and comrades, and not without the sacrifice of leaving his loved ones behind. But, as he stood in the short line, he couldn't keep down the thrill of leaving his small home in Candelaria for the first time, of moving to the country of hope. The image of perfection.

 _America._

 **I**

It was just another Monday morning in San Diego. Even before the sun had crept over the hills behind the suburbs, the city was already awake. The buses honked as they stopped at their stations at their appointed times. A businessman was hailing a cab. Traffic lights were flashing like the lights on ambulances.

In a cramped apartment, a man of about forty years of age was making breakfast in the tiny kitchen of their rented single-room apartment: apartment number 23 on the ninth floor.

Pablo woke up to the honking of cars in the streets below and shadows of the skyscrapers nearby blocking out the light from the early sun. This was how it was every morning, every day.

In a few hours, he would be off to school like all the little children living in The Plymouth of the West. He would learn the lessons that they did. His teacher had complimented him that he was a wonderful student, eager to learn and passionate about knowledge. That made Pablo smile as he got dressed.

"Morning, Pablo!" His father, who had just finished making two small bowls of oatmeal, greeted Pablo cheerily.

"Morning Daddy," Pablo replied, yawning and stretching out his arms as he sat down at a small wooden table for two. He quietly tapped his fingers on the table and spooned the oatmeal.

Behind the unaware child, his father smiled. There was something in his smile that was benign and genuine, unlike the smiles that the cashiers worked at the expensive jewelry stores flashed to their customers, or the smiles that diplomats used on the television in the school cafeteria. It was worn but beautiful, bright and shining.

 _She'd be proud of his manners_ , the father thought as he headed back into the kitchen.

 **I I**

Pablo picked up the piece of wood, carefully observing the black and white squares imprinted on the folded chessboard. He curiously fidgeted at the handle attached to the side of the board.

"Be careful!" Aaron warned him, but a few seconds too late. The board unfolded and the chess pieces spilled onto the tile floor of the classroom.

Blushing, Pablo bent down to pick up the miniature sculptures. "What is this?" He asked after he got up again.

"A chessboard, of course!" His friend explained. "Have you ever played chess?"

"No," Pablo replied, puzzled. Aaron immediately launched into an explanation about how to play this peculiar American game. It was a game that Pablo had seen Aaron play many times after school and he finally decided to ask the fair-skinned boy what it was.

"How long have you played this?" Pablo finally asked after he was done.

"Oh, ever since I was five! It's been . . ." He counted on his fingers. "Five, no, six years now," he announced proudly. "You should learn it," he added excitedly. "Not only can you play with me now, did you know it can help you get into the university?"

"It does?" Pablo asked. It had been his dream to get into the University of California. His father had told him that he worked as a janitor in one of the Southern Annex. Pablo wanted his father to be proud.

Aaron nodded vigorously. "Should we play a game?"

 **I I I**

"Daddy, guess what I have!" Pablo eagerly rushed to the door as his father arrived home at exactly 8:30 at night, like he always did.

"What would that be, honey?" He asked wearily.

Pablo proudly took out the chessboard and showed it to him.

"What's that?" Pablo's father asked as he kicked off his shoes and hung his second-hand coat on the hook by the door.

"A chessboard! It's a game, I can teach you how to play!" Pablo explained.

"That's great. I have to go to bed now, maybe later?" His father offered him a small smile. "You should go to bed too."

Reluctantly, Pablo tucked himself in in his shared bedroom with his father. Before he turned off the small light by his bed, he took one last look at the chessboard sitting on the floor not far away from his lamp.

He was going to learn to play like a master. He was going to win.

 **I V**

Checkmate! danced across the chessboard on the screen with a chorus of boos. The twelve-year-old boy sighed, putting his head in his hands in frustration with a loud huff.

"Pab, you need to eat dinner," a concerned voice came from behind the boy's bent back.

Pablo turned around with a little sigh. "Okay," he muttered, following his father into the kitchen.

"What's that game called again?" His father asked.

"Chess," Pablo replied. "Would you like to learn how to play?"

"Sorry son, I don't have time," he said with a sigh.

Pablo just nodded, sighing and facing his food again. As he ate, he repeatedly glanced at the chessboard at his feet. He brought it to school every day so Aaron and Blaise could teach him how to play. The fair-skinned children were talented at this game because their parents could afford to send them to private lessons. Both of them had made it to the school championships, but Pablo would never be as good as them. Though free online programs could teach him how to play, he couldn't ask questions to a computer. And his father would never have the money to afford any private lessons for him. And, for the first time, he felt bitter about chess and his parentage.

"Hey, Pablo, after you finish, we need to leave early today. I have a doctor's appointment," his father informed him with a shrug.

Pablo sighed. His father always had something to do, somewhere to be. "Do you think I'll ever be a good chess player someday?" Pablo asked instead.

"Of course, as long as you keep trying," Pablo's father replied. "Practice makes perfect."

"That's not true. Correct practice makes progress. That's what the teacher said," he sighed and paused. "When you were little, didn't you want to be someone great someday? Someone famous? Someone _special_?" Pablo asked.

His father frowned. "No, not really. I just wanted to be . . . normal, I guess."

Pablo shook his head in frustration. Something made him ill at ease about that response. His father wasn't like him . . .

"Something wrong, son?" Pablo's father asked, concerned.

"No."

But something was wrong. His father was never going to be one of those greats, one of those notables. His father didn't even _want_ to. And all of a sudden, Pablo felt like he didn't look up to his father anymore. Maybe Pablo would have to serve as his own example. He would add that to the ever-growing list of necessities his father was unable to provide.

 **I V**

 _Ding, dong!_

The doorbell rang. The fifteen-year-old hunched over the computer screen didn't bother to get up. His father entered, calling up, "Son? Are you practicing again?"

He didn't answer, his face screwed in concentration at the screen, his eyes squinting. He couldn't move the knight一no, that would leave his king open. The bishop was stuck. He wouldn't risk his queen. That pawn一

"Son, you need to eat dinner," Pablo could hear his father say.

"Later," Pablo mumbled, his eyes trained on the computer screen, which was centimeters away from the tip of his nose.

"Honey一"

Suddenly, all of Pablo's frustration exploded. His chair whirled around. "Just because you never did anything great doesn't mean I don't want to!" He yelled. "You can't even understand a single move on this screen! When I grow up, I'm going to do something important, I'm going to become someone great! Unlike _you_!"

His father calmly walked away, watching his son turn back towards the screen. He'd never done anything great, but everyone had a piece of the puzzle. Everyone completed their piece, and that made them great.

But would _she_ have thought the same thing? Her number had long disappeared from his connections, but, some nights, he still stared at the ceiling in wonder of where she was.

No, she wouldn't have. _Being who you are is a mark of greatness itself_ , she would've said. He heard the words in her voice as he turned around to see his son's silhouette still hunched over the screen.

 _Being who you are is a mark of greatness itself . . ._

 **V**

The auditorium was buzzing with conversation as Pablo hurried in, setting a pile of English books by his foot as he sat down.

Mr. Addison cleared his throat into the microphone at the front of the huge room. "Good morning, students of Maple High!" The principal began as the room quieted down.

Aaron nudged Pablo's side. "You reckon you got one of those?" He asked, pointing to the trophies on the table next to Mr. Addison on the stage.

Pablo just shrugged.

"Welcome to the end of another semester," he began. "It's been a great honor to teach all of you . . ."

". . . Chess is one of the extracurricular activities we've had the honor to add this year. I'd like to congratulate freshman Pablo Fernandez for leading Maple High to the state championships this April as well as achieving first place in this year's regionals. Please put your hands together for Pablo Fernandez!"

The students clapped for him in a lackadaisical manner as Pablo stepped up to the stage, holding a gold and blue trophy with a king chess piece carved at the top. 1st PLACE HIGH SCHOOL OVERALL, REGIONAL, SOCAL was carved into the plaque at the bottom of the trophy as well as PABLO FERNANDEZ.

Mixed emotions and thoughts rushed through his head as cameras flashed and he smiled at them in turn. But the most prominent one was pride. Not because he had won, or because he'd achieved such a high award, but because he'd proved to himself that he was not like his father. His father, who never did anything great. Who was satisfied with being a simple janitor, nothing better. Who fine with not being nobody more important. Who was _never_ going to be great.

He was not going to be like him. Pablo was going to attend the university that his father could only be a servant at.

Yes, Pablo was going to be _better_.

 **VI**

"What is that?" A benign voice asked.

"Mhm, what?" Pablo muttered, focusing on the screen. He needed to figure this out for the vital chess competition tomorrow. He could move the knight, but that would result in the sacrifice of his pawn, which was so close to being一

His father pointed to the regional trophy sitting by the computer. His enthusiastic voice chimed in. "Did you win something? That's great一"

"It's none of your business," Pablo replied coldly. He found his father turned away, his footsteps echoing through the small space as he headed quickly down the stairs. He had some sort of doctor's appointment to head to anyways, Pablo thought as he heard the door open and close.

Long after he had left, Pablo found himself staring at his knight on the screen, his thoughts drifting far from chess. This wasn't just a game. It was his dreams. And maybe it was who he was.

And then, his thoughts drifted to another topic. There were so many ways to define the word _great_ , he contemplated. Great, like the masters of chess he learned about. Great, like the famous revolutionists that had structured this country. Great, like the music artists that he heard about in the news who struggled to fame. Great, like who he would be when he grew up . . .

 **VII**

The sky cried in anger that day. Raindrops pounded on the roofs. The oily pavement was covered in water, sloshing towards the drains. Pablo's car threw rain onto the sidewalk as it rounded the corner and screeched to a stop at a red light. Though it was midday, a dark canvas had been plastered over the sky, the roads illuminated only by streetlamps and traffic lights.

The usual hustle and bustle did not cease to the malicious weather, however. Even in the pounding rain, buses still honked as they stopped at their stations. A businessman still hailed a cab at the street corner. A young boy still played at the street corner, sticking his tongue out to catch the raindrops before they fell to the floor, like Pablo tried to catch his dreams of greatness before they were gone.

But Pablo's thoughts were drifting far from his young and innocent days, as the traffic light turned green, and Pablo turned onto East Smith Street. He was running the moves he'd make in various situations over and over again in his head. If his opponent played the Ruy Lopez, he would use the mainline. If his opponent chose to play it to a draw, Pablo would wait until close to the end, when both sides were worn out. If his opponent chose to play the Sicilian defense . . .

Pablo sighed, pulling out his bag as he slammed the door of the small, second-hand car he was driving. In his peripheral vision, Pablo noticed several students his age being lead to the conference room door of the hotel. In particular, he noticed a boy two cars away from him. He was perhaps a year or so older than Pablo. His mother had opened the trunk for him to retrieve his books and form. His father was holding an umbrella over the son's head as he did so.

His own father wouldn't be able to do any of that, Pablo thought bitterly. His head snapped away from the family and Pablo promptly headed towards the entrance.

 **VIII**

The audience's applause was bright in his memory as he started the engine again, a trophy sitting on his lap. Pablo set a record with his win. He was the youngest ever to achieve this award. And Pablo was certain that he had walked the first step to greatness. The trophy was his token. A mark of greatness. A symbol of what he had achieved.

A symbol of a step his father had never taken, and never would.

And, though he had kept it away from his mind, bitterness over his father surged through his veins again. It was nearly ten years he'd spent with his father. His useless, worthless, _normal_ father.

 _E_ _E_ _E_ _E_ _O_ _O_ _O_ _E_ _E_ _E_ _E_ _O_ _O_ _O_ _E_ _E_ _E_ _E_ _O_ _O_ _!_ All the cars swerved to the side of the road to let an ambulance followed by a few police cars through, interrupting Pablo from his thoughts. Pablo sighed in frustration, directing his car to the side of the street like everyone else. The San Diego traffic never ceased, day or night.

A few minutes later, the teenage boy was climbing up the stairs to his apartment. There was an odd sort of eerie silence. That definitely didn't help the bitterness building up about his father, who was probably taking his noon nap on the couch right now.

Not wanting to see him, Pablo quietly headed into their shared room. He carefully placed his new trophy next to his five others, gained by hard work and the craving for greatness. He dreamed of rows and rows of trophies displayed in glass cases someday. Someday. That someday would be a day that would come for him soon, but never for his father.

Sighing, Pablo decided he should face his schoolwork now. If he stood a chance with the other applicants who would try to get into the University of California this year, with their prestigious private schools and lists of extracurriculars, he would have to earn top grades.

As Pablo pulled a few books out of his backpack, he noticed a small slip of paper sitting at the edge of his bed. Was it his lost homework pass? He hurried over to it. In very messy, hurried handwriting stood the following words:

Pab, please call this number and tell them my first and last name. Love, Daddy.

Underneath that, there was scratched a phone number. Something was wrong. Pablo knew it from the pounding of his heart as he picked up the rickety home phone from the living room. His father wasn't there.

Hands shaking, he punched in the number.

"Hello, this is the Sans Crippa Hospital. How may I help you?"

 **IX**

Pablo's wandering eyes froze on the slip of paper. _Hospital. Love, Daddy._

This was wrong. All wrong. So wrong. Was this what greatness felt like?

"Hello," he said, his voice dying in his parched throat. "Do you have a patient by the name of Francis Fernandez?"

"Honey," the assistant said, and pity filled her voice. "He was recently brought to the emergency room on floor three. Are you his relative?"  
 _Emergency room._ "Yes," Pablo muttered, his hands reaching for the piece of paper. "I'm his son." All those doctor's appointments. How could he have not noticed? How could he have not cared? No, this wasn't what greatness felt like. This wasn't what he craved to achieve.

 _Was it?_

The two words ran around his head, asking him. _Was it? Was it?_ What _was_ greatness?

"Okay, honey, I'm going to send a taxi to your place of residence. Is it true that you have not moved in the last six months and your address . . ."

But Pablo's mind was far from the assistant's word regarding his address as he wrenched the piece of paper. Slowly, he uncurled his fists. Underneath the hospital number, a smaller number was written. Before he could digest it, Pablo snapped his head away from the paper. He knew who it was. He couldn't bear to tell her. Pablo ripped the piece of paper into tiny pieces, throwing them into the fireplace. Gritting his teeth, he ran to his room and snatched the chessboard, Aaron's gift from so long ago. Pablo threw it across the room. The wood splintered and cracked into a million pieces with a _crash!_ The pieces tumbled out, falling over his father's bed.

As the board shattered, thoughts rushed through Pablo's mind. He was thinking about his last interaction with 'Daddy', and how different that would've been if he knew it might be his father's last day. He was thinking about his father's answer to his question. He was thinking about the hours and hours his father must have spent with his back hunched in the semi-darkness of the restroom cubicles in the Southern Annex of the University of California.

He was thinking about what measures his parents had to take to get him here. He was thinking about who his mother must have been. He was thinking about how harsh of a childhood they must have had. He was thinking about the love that his mother and father had for him even before he could talk. He was thinking about the sacrifices they'd made for him.

And Pablo understood what truly made a mark of greatness.

 **E**

It was just another Monday morning in San Diego. Even before the sun had crept over the hills behind the suburbs, the city was already awake. The buses honked as they stopped at their stations at their appointed times. A businessman was hailing a cab. Traffic lights were flashing.

In a spacious home built on top of two well-known jewelry stores, the CEO of the famous footwear company was getting ready to head to work. He held his bag in his hand as he watched his son finish his oatmeal.

To the five-year-old boy, he was calm and collected, rarely raising his voice. As Adan put his empty bowl in the sink, he noticed something sticking out of one of the packed boxes which the workers had filled only yesterday. They were moving to a bigger home now, which always made Adan excited. Curious, he headed over to the open box, pulling it out. It was a sort of wooden board covered in checkered squares, splintered and worn at the edges and missing a chunk from the side.

"Daddy, what's this?" Adan asked curiously.

His father tensed immediately. "Son, it's a chessboard. Don't touch that," he said, a tone of warning in his voice.

"A chessboard? That sounds so fancy!" Adan said, not taking note of the warning in his father's voice. "Didn't that dude on TV get famous by playing chess? I want to be a great chess player just like him!" Adan pouted.

"You're misinterpreting the definition of greatness," Pablo said, his voice cold and icy. "I need to discard that anyway." He hurried over to his son, grabbing it from his hand and promptly throwing it in the garbage. "We need to hurry to school or we're going to be late."

Adan hurried away with his father, but if he'd glanced at the clock, he would've noticed that they were five minutes earlier than usual.

 **THE END**

 _I hope you're crying cuz it's so sad! Thank you for reading!_

 _A/N: I'm Sorry that had nothing to do with Divergent by V. Roth!_

 _I really hoped you liked I. I spent a LOT of time and effort on this_

 _-Girl_With_Prettier_Lies_


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